All He Had
by Death by Angsts
Summary: The night of October 31st changed everything. AU/Character Deaths/One-Shot


Disclaimer: I do not own To Kill A Mockingbird nor any of its characters.

WARNING: Character deaths. Deaths are rather graphic (though the violent act is not described).

* * *

Atticus Finch stood over two yawning holes in the ground, side by side, fresh dirt piled nearby. It was uncommonly warm for early November, even in Alabama; however, a chill that penetrated to his bones made him shiver almost uncontrollably. He was thankful for the heavy, dark dress coat he wore. No one could see how his body trembled, not from a distance, not from across the graves where almost the entire town of Maycomb stood, watching and listening to the Methodist preacher drone about young lives taken too soon.

Calpurnia was not so careful with her emotions. Tear stains were evident on her dark cheeks, glistening in the morning sunlight. She had her arms hugged around her son's muscular one, who, Atticus could see, was bearing most of her weight. His children's surrogate mother-figure was devastated. Maudie stood next to her, her hand gripping Calpurnia's arm. Her eyes were damp, and an occasional tear slipped down her cheek.

His sister, Alexandria, mourned appropriately, sniffing occasionally, and dabbing tears from her eyes with a lace handkerchief before they could touch her cheeks. Her eyelashes sparkled with tears, but she was ever firm in her social standing. Jack, their younger brother, wept openly, though his shuddering breaths were barely audible. He occasionally dragged a large handkerchief across his face, trying to wipe away the evidence of his deep sorrow.

Vaguely, Atticus wondered if anyone noticed his dry eyes, his sullen, almost emotionless, face. He was more like Alexandra, in that way, keeping up appearances. He was a lawyer through and through, and he was not one to give into his emotions freely. Not before the public, that is. He was controlled and temperate, wise and knowing. His brevity became him, and he did not know any other way. Even in moments of peril, he found it difficult to react with any sort of urgency.

However, on October 31st, everything had changed. Everything.

The night had been quiet. Atticus was enjoying the unusual evening without his children. He loved their voices, their questions, their daring. He loved when Jean Louis climbed into his lap in the evening to read the paper with him. He loved Jem's quiet concentration over his sports magazines, or listening intently to court discussions, endeavoring to be every bit the adult he dreamed to be. However, tonight, Atticus enjoyed the quiet, the uninterrupted reading and listening to his radio programs. The only human interaction he had was when his sister asked him to turn down the radio.

The night was growing later, and Atticus checked his pocket watch. It was nearly 10 o'clock. His children should have been home by now. He hadn't heard the door open, or their voices outside. He stood up, stretched his tired muscles, and clicked off the radio. He figured he would walk out and see if he could meet them and call them back in. They had probably lost track of the time in the excitement of the evening. He wished he had joined them, seen Scout as a ham in the play. He chuckled, thinking about it. She had been so proud.

Atticus walked to the porch. "Scout! Jem! Come on in now," he called, barely raising his voice. He did not believe for a moment they were far off. That wasn't their way. Jem and Scout might be out late; however, they were likely harassing Arthur Radley, or perhaps playing in the yard. However, after a few silent minutes went by, an unfamiliar fear in his stomach settled. The night was commonly quiet for this time of night; however, for his children to be out in it, it was too quiet. Fearfully silent. "Scout. Jem," he said again, louder this time, panic edging his voice.

"Atticus, is everything alright," Alexandra asked, coming to the door. She was wearing her housecoat, she held it tight up at her throat.

"The children aren't home yet," Atticus said distantly. He was staring intently down the street. He knew his eyes weren't as good as they used to be, but maybe.

"Good heavens, I'm sure they're nearly home," Alexandra said, but Atticus did not miss the shrill edge in her voice. If she was worried…

"I'll walk the path they'd usually take and see if I come across them," Atticus said. He went in and got the flashlight out of the drawer near the phone.

Alexandra caught his arm before he went back out. "I had a feeling about tonight, Atticus. I'm worried for them."

Atticus smiled assuringly. "It's not time to worry yet, sister. I'll let you know when it's time."

Alexandra smiled grimly. "Alright."

Atticus knew the route his children took to school. He walked with the flashlight bouncing ahead on the path before him. He carefully avoided roots and potholes. Finally, he reached the place where the sidewalk became a gentle path through the school yard, under trees. "Scout, Jem. You need to come on home now," he called to the darkness. That's when he heard it. A soft, almost inaudible whimper. His flashlight beam darted to the noise, and he saw his daughter, laying on the ground, her head at a horrible angle to her body.

Atticus rushed to her, fell down beside her, but dared not pick her up. Every instinct screamed for him to scoop up his whimpering baby in his arms, to comfort her, to hold her close to him; however, just looking at her, he knew her neck was broken. He could not touch her, or she could die. "I'm here, sweetheart," he soothed, touching her arms, stroking them. "I'm here." His voice hurt, the lump in his throat early choking. He had to go get help, Scout needed a doctor. "I have to get Aunt Alexandra, Scout, but I will be back. I promise." He forced himself to his feet, grabbing the flashlight. He planned to leave it with Scout, she was not hidden in the darkness anymore, but as he picked it up, the beam caught another body a few feet away.

Jem.

Atticus went to him, kneeling next to the older child. He did not have to touch him to know he was dead. Dead. Dead. The word echoed in Atticus' mind. Not dead, please, not dead. But there was too much blood, and the wounds were too deep…Atticus touched Jem's face, covered in blood. Jem's eyes were open and unseeing. Atticus choked on a sob.

The sound of Scout gasping shook him, and he reluctantly left Jem's body in the darkness. Why did it have to be so dark tonight. He returned to Scout. He could not leave her. This had not been an accident. It was an attack. "I'm going to call for help, Scout," Atticus said, taking Scout's hand gently.

The hours that followed were agonizing. Scout did not survive even long enough for the doctor to arrive. Her last breath was with Atticus and Alexandra holding her hands, a blanket brought by Maudie draped over her trembling body. The moment she went still, Atticus' resolve broke entirely. He sobbed against Maudie, who held his head in her arms. That is where Heck Tate found them, and Dr. Reynolds soon after. The neighborhood had gathered, and the men had already started searching for the monster who had committed the murders.

Somehow, Atticus found himself back in his own home, sitting in his familiar chair. Alexandra and Maudie were there, trying to console him even in their own grief. His eyes felt swollen, and his lungs ached with sobs. A single thought ran through his head again, and again, and again. My children are dead. My children are dead. My children are dead…

It did not take long for them to find Bob Ewell drunk out of his mind with blood all over him. He even had the audacity to admit to everything this a maniacal laugh, according to Heck. Atticus would have given anything to be able to have a moment alone with Mr. Ewell, but he was not allowed within yelling distance of the courthouse until the trial, on which occasion he would be a witness to the crime scene where the murders of his children took place. He would have to describe what he saw in as much detail as he could bear. The thought of reliving that night made him physically sick. However, the trial would not be until the following spring, most like.

The funeral was held only a few days later. Atticus had been beside himself with grief all night. The thought of burying his children next to his late wife was almost too much for him. He had never imagined in his worst nightmares that he would see the deaths of either of his children. He had always worried he would pass away while they were still young, that he would never see Jem marry, or walk Scout down the aisle. He wondered if he would ever hold a grandchild of his own. However, his worst nightmares had come true, and he had lived to see them.

By the time Heck came by to pick him and Alexandra up and take them to the church, Atticus had composed himself. He had washed his face, combed his hair back, replaced his glasses to their place. He looked in the mirror and felt cold and emotionless; but nothing could be further from the truth. The truth was, he didn't know if he even had a more tears to shed.

That is, until it was time to lower the caskets into the ground. The boxes were too small, they held too precious a cargo. As he watched, he felt his knees buckle, and he had to reach out and clutch Jack's arm for support. His brother immediately caught him, holding his weight with so much grace, no one seemed to notice that Atticus could not stand anymore. His body continued to tremble, but Jack held him upright.

Despite tradition, Atticus refused to have guests after the funeral. Everyone brought food and left it on his doorstep; however, the only people who came in were Atticus' closest family and friends. At long last, even these mourners started to dissipate. Finally, all that was left in the little Finch house was Atticus, Alexandra, and Jack. Alexandra, exhausted by the day's activities, retired to her room early, leaving Atticus and Jack alone in the sitting room.

Neither brother talked for sometime, both lost in their own memories and thought. Atticus listened to the silence, uninterrupted by chattering, inquisitive voices that had become so familiar, but now were gone forever. "It's so quiet, Jack," Atticus said, his voice hollow.

The tears that Atticus thought were dried up returned in an instant, and he found himself weeping once again, his face buried in his hands. Up until this point, everything had felt surreal, as if any moment he could wake up from this horrendous, lucid dream. He would just walk to his children's rooms, open their doors, and see them sleeping soundly, their steady breathing causing their chests to gently rise and fall. He had prayed to wake up, begged God for this all to be over. Awake at last, Atticus knew that this was indeed reality. Reality was that Jem and Scout were dead.

Atticus felt himself being pulled into a tight embrace, and he leaned into Jack's chest. He wept for what seemed like hours, Jack's voice softly comforting him with words his mind refused to comprehend. Finally, Jack gently pushed Atticus back in his chair and knelt before him, taking Atticus' hands in his. "Brother, you are exhausted. You need rest. Please, let me give you something to help you sleep."

Atticus frowned and shook his head. "It's my fault they're dead, Jack. It's all my fault. I should have gone with them. I should have…I should have gone out to find them earlier. They were alone, terrified, and in pain…and I was enjoying the evening listening to the radio. What kind of father am I?"

Jack's face set with resolve. "A damned good one, Atticus."

The use of language shocked Atticus a little, coming from Jack. He stammered, "No…"

"No, you listen to me," Jack said. All the soft gentleness was gone. "You were a wonderful father to those kids. They loved you, they adored you. Never for a moment did they doubt that you cared deeply for them. What happened is not your fault. Do you hear me? Not your fault. I don't want to hear those words come out of your mouth ever again." Jack's eyes suddenly filled with tears, and he started to cry. "I am so sorry for your loss, brother. I truly am. I loved those kids with all my heart, and I know you loved them even more. I can't imagine the pain you are going through right now, and I can't say I ever want to. But what happened to them, the monster that killed them, is not your fault. There is evil in this world, and no matter how hard we try, it touches us all."

Atticus struggled to get the words past the lump in his throat. "Thank you," he whispered.

Bob Ewell's trial was swift and judgement was served. No one on the jury doubted his guilt for a moment, not when he kept slurring Atticus and saying, "He done got what him deserved, I ain't a bit sorry for anythin' I did." Atticus sat in on the trial, stone faced, until he had to sit on the witness stand. He tried to calmly explain what he saw that night, the evidence of the deadly violence against all he had left in this world. However, as soon as he came to the part of his heartbreaking story of coming across Jean Louis with a broken neck, and Jem with his throat slit, his carefully placed mask shattered. Through quiet tears, and broken voice, he told the jury how he sat with Scout until she passed away, out in the warm darkness of a late October night. It was said there was not a dry eye in the room as Atticus spoke, except for Mr. Ewell himself, who sat with a self righteous sneer plastered on his face.

The days, weeks, months, and years that followed the trial, Atticus quietly celebrated each milestone his children would have had. He was still a lawyer, but he absolutely refused to work in any area of criminal law. Judge Taylor never pressed the issue, and Atticus never had to explain himself. When Atticus finally retired, he moved back to Finch Landing with his sister, and lived the rest of his days in quiet, ebbing grief for all that he had lost.

FIN.


End file.
